At his call,
They run bare feet,
And circle around him, hypnotized;
Their fresh salty smell fill space,
Take the shyness by its throat.
Each one of them,
As fresh as morning mist,
Looks at him impatiently,
While their thick eyelashes constantly flutter,
And strawberry lips remain parched.
They have the cleanest armpits,
And their blouses smell of petrichor,
He causes goosebump on their white round arms,
Their knees quiver, palms sweat.
His nose is pointed straight,
His eyes are blue at their best,
His hair is short and clean,
His clothes are tattered,
But his face is stoic,
With summer tucked in his breath.
They kiss him – the cost of a sachet,
That contains regolith to aid their sex lives,
It costs no extra penny, no paise,
He grinds Moon on his grindstone,
Wondering behind them, some men say.
Then he walks empty handed,
Leaving their breasts thrilled with joy,
They’ll make love to their husbands,
Musing on him tonight.
Once in a month,
They do this trading of love and passion,
While regolith remains,
A mystery, an excuse, and obsession.